


Big

by MothMeetsFlame



Series: Post-Hell Regression [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Good Dad Sam, Happy Dean, Headspace, Infantilism, Little!Dean, Non-Sexual Age Play, Papa!Sam, Temper Tantrums, timeout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 14:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11807892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MothMeetsFlame/pseuds/MothMeetsFlame
Summary: Who decided that this whole age play crap was a thing now? It sure as hell wasn't Dean. Screw this sucking on a pacifier, snuggles with Papa, sleeps in a crib, bathtime bullshit. He's an adult, dammit.





	Big

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LKM22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LKM22/gifts), [sleepyvixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepyvixen/gifts).



> Holy shit. I can't believe it's almost been two months since I've posted in this series. Oops. Well, here's another a little something to tide y'all over until I can finish the actual next fic in this series. It may still be a while.
> 
> This was written for LKM 22, who said "It be cool to read one where Dean is fighting his regression but Sam knows he still needs to be little, so won't let him." And for sleepyvixen who wanted some bratty Dean. 
> 
> I love when Dean resists. It's adorable as fuck. Your wish, my command *bibbidi-bobbidi-boo*

He's had it with all of this posturing bullshit, all this kiddie crap that he didn’t when he'd gone through his actual childhood and that he definitely doesn't need now. He doesn't give two shits what Sam says. He's a goddamn grown-ass adult, thank you very much. He can do as he damn well pleases.

Dean rips the— _comfort and soothing away the nightmares and doubt and fear_ —pacifier from the clip at his chest and throws it against the wall in disgust. After that, it's a simple matter of ridding himself of the— _softest thing he's ever felt against his skin, so warm_ —onesie and changing into a set of real clothes. Sam— _Papa_ —is so damn lucky he hadn't gotten rid of any of Dean’s real clothes or else they would have to have words.

It's bad enough they're going to have words about all of this— _comfort and happiness and safety_ —age play crap. Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to regress him to childhood? Because Dean's pretty damn sure no one consulted him on this plan. He would've vetoed it as soon as it was presented, that's for damn sure.

He's naked without his— _Hunt, destroy_ —weapons, but Sam's got— _home_ —Baby parked in the garage, so he won't be unarmed for long.

"Dean, baby?"

Dean scowls. "Cut it with that 'Dean, baby' crap. I'm not a child."

Sam sighs. "Dean..."

"No."

He brushes past— _warmth and love_ —Sam and practically sprints down the stairs toward the garage. Before he can get a hand on the knob, Sam's voice strikes fear into his heart.

"Dean Winchester, you know the rules. You're not allowed in the garage without permission. If you want to go in there, you need to ask politely."

Dean doesn't really need his— _kill, maim_ —weapons. The whole house is warded to high heaven. Hell, he's pretty sure they even have wards _against heaven_ painted on the walls somewhere even though Dean's 99.9% sure angels don't exist. He's safe as houses, if all houses were as safe as this one, so he doesn't need the weapons. He isn't planning on taking off, not until he's sure about where he's going. It's not like he's going to be able to— _kill, kill, kill_ —Hunt anytime soon. There's a reason for the whole "age play" thing, after all. It's not like he can just decide to be fine and then _poof_ it happens. His head isn't in the proper order to be leaving the house without someone to accompany him, and Sam's not looking to be very useful in that department.

So, really, there's no reason that he needs to go into the garage— _kill_ —at all.

Dean glares at Sam and opens the door anyway.

Dean doesn't even have a chance to step inside though. As soon as it swings open, it slams shut, Sam's hand in the center of the door, pushing it closed while Dean looks at him, dumbfounded.

"No, Dean."

Dean glares— _kill_.

"Come on. It's time to get you back into your clothes and then I'll make us some lunch."

Dean's stomach growls, but he doesn't budge. "Dammit, Sam," he says.

"Language," Sam scolds.

"Screw you."

A flash of shock and hurt appears on Sam's face— _torture, kill, die_ —for an instant until a blank mask overshadows it. Dean wants to apologize, opens his mouth to do so, but before he can get a word in, Sam bends down and tosses Dean over his shoulder, carrying him upstairs.

"Put me down."

"No, Dean."

"Put. Me. Down."

"No."

"Put me down, now!"

Sam doesn't respond as Dean squirms, trying to loosen himself in his brother's hold. He doesn't even budge. Sam’s arm is like an iron bar— _bound, bound and tied and tortured_ —around his thighs, and Dean half-panics until Sam sets him down in his timeout chair.

“The timeout chair. Really?”

“You throw a tantrum, you get a timeout.”

Dean scoffs. “A tantrum,” he mutters. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Five minutes.”

“Like you can keep me here.”

Sam raises an eyebrow and a small shudder— _die_ —crawls down Dean’s spine.

“Whatever,” Dean says, looking away. It’s only five minutes. He can do that, no sweat. And then Sam will have to let him up— _choose, Dean_ —and they can talk about this rationally like _adults_.

…

Or not.

It’s not even three minutes later and Dean’s antsy. His foot’s tapping a mile a minute and his thumb has mysteriously found purchase in his mouth despite Dean’s insistence that he’s going to stay Big today, dammit. Things are not going according to plan.

“Fuck this.”

There’s no reason for him to stay in the damn time out chair. It’s not like Sam’s gonna hit— _beat, sear, flay_ —him. It’s not how they roll. Sam wouldn’t hurt one hair on his head. He knows that. Beyond a doubt.

It still doesn’t stop his hand— _blood_ —from trembling— _death_ —as he grips the door frame.

That’s how Sam finds him a few minutes later, one hand on door, one hand on the frame, half in the room and staring off into space trying to decide whether he’s staying or leaving. Sam smiles sadly and runs a hand through Dean’s hair, pulling him out of his mind.

It takes a few seconds before the haze clears and recognition lights Dean’s eyes. Sam kisses his forehead and pets him again, watching a small smile of contentment grace his brother’s face before the obligatory scowl takes over.

It’s progress.

“Lunch is ready, kiddo,” Sam tells him. “Why don’t we sit down and eat something? I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Dean’s always hungry. It’s a mix of Dean’s size, his metabolism, and the effects of his childhood. Dean almost never turns down food, not unless he has reason to think it’s poisoned, but it’s been months since that’s happened.

Dean follows him downstairs without a word and sits down in his chair, the one with DEAN written in blue and purple foam letters on the back that he decorated himself. Sam smiles at the memory.

Lunch isn’t anything fancy. He made a couple of veggie sandwiches and chopped up some fruit during Dean’s time out. As much as Old Dean would have protested the lack of meat, Little Dean is more than happy for it. Sam’s not sure he wants to know the reason Dean shies away from some of his previously favorite foods. Trying to get him anywhere near pork is trying, not because Dean won’t still eat it, but because the resulting panic attacks are a nightmare.

Dean smiles after his first bite of sandwich, and Sam ruffles  his hair, much to Dean’s discontent. It’s hard seeing the blanket skepticism on Dean’s face anytime Sam treats him with affection.

The flashes of anger and pain and violence that appear whenever Dean struggles with his role, though, just kill him. The longer he lets it go, the worse it gets. This time, thankfully, the time out and the food seem to be doing some good. Dean relaxes with every bite, face going slack instead of holding Post-Hell Dean’s perpetual scowl.

They’re halfway through lunch when Dean speaks.

"Why?" Dean asks.

Sam doesn’t need an explanation. He knows what Dean’s asking. "I told you, bud. You're not ready yet."

Dean pouts. "It's been long enough. I'm better."

Sam smiles. "You're definitely better, but I don't want to push it. We agreed, two more months and then we can try for a Big day. Until then, you're stuck as my Dean baby."

Dean huffs.

"Oh, come on. It can't be that bad."

"It's the worst," Dean mumbles around an apple spear.

Sam grins. "Even though I'm the best Papa in the universe?"

"Definitely."

"Awww. Don't be like that. You know you like being Little."

"Don't."

Sam boops his nose. "Do so."

Dean glares, but he can't hold the expression for long before he gives in to Sam's teasing. His papa's right. He loves being Little.

"Aha! See? I told you."

Dean sticks out his tongue, but he’s smiling now.

“Come on, Dean, baby,” his papa tells him. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

When Sam’s arms wrap around him, there are no more flashes of Hell. Just him and his papa.  It’s the safest he’s ever felt.


End file.
